In the beginning, there was water, and it was wet.
I work at the very end of the Mississippi River, so much so that it is nearly a home away from home, though my wife and kids live one hundred and eight miles upriver. My river. This place I speak of is, at best, a village on the east bank of the mighty Mississippi that uses a system of boardwalks to get from one building to the other. At one point in history, there were over five hundred residents, but those days are long gone. Now there are about eleven, but that may not count Mr Earl who's gone to live closer to roads and infrastructure. His son thinks he shouldn't be in such an isolated area as there are no roads, no cars, no motorcycles (though there is one four wheeler), and there aren't even any horses. The main form of transportation is by boat.
The Mississippi..."Big River" by the Ojibwa tribe, "Father of Waters" by Abraham Lincoln (1863) and James Finemore Cooper (1827), and "a creek that will grow into an insurmountable courier of sediment and stories before she settles with her sea" by Katie Bowler (www.katiebowler.com).
I'm starting this because I am at the very end of civilization and have some time here and there that is better served by my talking to the wind than it is by watching television. So I will place here a miscellany of thoughts, works, compositions, quotes, utter crap and anything else that might come to mind in the middle of the night.